Page 26 of Manhattan Kiss

But I can tell from the lines across his forehead and the pain in his eyes that telling me about his sister has almost been too much. He needs the conversation to move on.

“It’s great really. It’s been easier to adjust than I expected. Has New York been home to you long?” I ask. I wonder if anywhere other than Woolton would really feel like home to me. I can’t imagine feeling like New York was home.

He pulls in a breath, his jaw softens, and it’s as if a layer of sadness has been wiped away. “I’m not sure. I live here, so I suppose that makes it home.”

I can’t help but smile at the thought that he’s not sure where his home is. But maybe it’s not funny. Maybe it’s sad. Or maybe it’s not sad, and it’s actually quite freeing to think that anywhere you live is home.

Somewhere in the back of my head is a voice that tells me that tonight, this dinner, with this man, is important. Life-changing even. That it will have me seeing the world in a slightly different way for the rest of my life.

“How old are you?” I ask, with uncharacteristic bluntness. “Thirty-two? How long have you lived in New York?”

“I’m thirty-seven. I just take excellent care of my skin, so I look thirty-two.” He grins.

“I need details on your moisturizing regime,” I say. “I’m thirty-six.” I don’t know why I offer the information, but it feels like another secret. Thirty-six and single. I don’t have a daughter to go home to and I don’t think I ever will.

He doesn’t say I don’t look it, but I’m not offended. How could I be? He’s already told me he’s attracted to me.

“I’ve been in New York fifteen years.”

“Where are your family, your parents?” I ask.

“My parents are back in the UK. In Oxfordshire. They’re retired.”

“Are you close?”

He shakes his head. “Not really.”

Maybe that’s why I feel like I could never permanently leave Woolton. I have so many deep ties there. I guess that’s what home is—the place where your connections are deepest. But the idea that I might have a home outside of that place…that New York could be my home…well, the idea feels like a sprouting seed in my brain.

Before I know it, we’ve finished our food and our wine and our waitress comes over and asks us if there’s anything else we want.

There isn’t, but I’m not sure if I want the evening to be over. No, I am sure—I don’t want it to be over.

Deacon doesn’t make a move to leave. He stares at me like he’s trying to figure me out. Maybe he can see I’m an open book.

I shift in my seat, thinking I should be the first to leave. But Deacon slides his leg between mine and I freeze. It’s just the graze of his suit-covered leg, but it feels like he’s claimed me in that moment.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“A thousand things,” I answer. My brain is such a jumble of thoughts, I don’t know what to pull out and tell him.

“Tell me one.”

My cheeks heat as I start to wonder how bold, how brazen I should be.

“Say it,” he says, his voice thick and deep.

“I’m pleased I got stood up tonight.”

He nods. “Careful. You might start to enjoy New York.”

I hadn’t told him I wasn’t enjoying it. Can he see that in me? Does he see how conflicted I am about being an ocean away from everything I know?

Is it a guess? A throwaway line? Do I care?

“Maybe I will.”

His eyes darken and something in his expression tells me that he wants to change the way I feel about this city.